The value of selective memory in parenting

I was on Twitter ("X," whatever) recently and came across this tweet from a young woman named Emily whose content I always find engaging and thought provoking. This is what she said:

"ok do neurotypical parents not find a toddler saying “MAMA!!!!! PICK UP!!!” ten thousand times overstimulating???what if there’s a baby crying at the same time? and you’re also hungry? And Bluey is blaring in the background? are some people feeling totally calm in this scenario?"

Most who commented on the tweet said exactly what I wanted to say: "Oh gosh, believe me, you're not alone. Every parent feels like that. It comes with the territory and is absolutely normal. Trust me, Emily, you're doing great!"

There was one comment from a mom of five who said that, in those situations, rather than stressing out, she revels in the chaos and is always calm. It may have been a well-intended response, but it came across as a little self-righteous. We parents of larger families are sometimes really good at saying unhelpful things like this, and as a rule, it's usually best simply to ignore us.

Anyway, Emily's plight reminded me how parents are so adept at filtering out the bad parts of parenting and retaining only the good stuff in their memories. Terry and I had plenty of times when the whole experience of raising offspring seemed impossible and we cursed our combined fertility.

Parenting is hard. It's supposed to be hard. You're charged with caring for these small, helpless creatures and keeping them alive while trying to mold them into civilized human beings. There is nothing easy about that, and being overwhelmed is just about the most natural reaction I can think of.

It is, in some ways, remarkable that anyone ever chooses to have a second child. The drain of raising just one rugrat is enough to make any sane person swear off the whole experience.

Yet we do it all the time. Mothers who endure pregnancy and birth routinely opt to do it again. And again. And in cases like my wife, throw in a couple more "agains."

The only explanation for this is that the rewards of parenting far outweigh the frustrations. And by that I mean the long-term rewards, because there will be stretches in your parenting journey in the midst of which it will be difficult to rationalize why you got yourself into it all in the first place.

The only thing I can say to young parents is something they already know, at least in their logical brains, which is that eventually it gets somewhat easier. And the little ones really do grow up. And somehow, perhaps unbelievably, there will come a day when you miss the chaos.

That includes you, Emily. Even if you don't realize it, those three kids are incredibly blessed to have you as a mom.

(NOTE: Today is my daughter Chloe's birthday. She is somehow 27 years old and still one of the most amazing people I know. Happy birthday to our second-born!)

The hardest parental adjustment? It's going from zero kids to one kid.

NOTE: I hope you don't mind me recycling this post from September 2015, but it's something I'm occasionally asked about by young parents and those who plan to become parents. I still stand by my assertion here.

I've heard it said among people with three or more children that having that third child was the hardest leap for them to make.

The argument goes that when you have one or two kids, there is always a parent available to address any child-related crisis that might arise. And that suddenly, with three kids, you're outnumbered. You switch from man-to-man coverage to more of a zone defense.

Which I suppose is true.

But hands down, the biggest jump is going from the state of being childless to the state of parenthood. It's that zero-to-one adjustment that is, by far, the most life-changing.

Right? You parents remember what it was like when you were rookies. Life before the first kid and life after the first kid could not be more different. Everything – and I mean everything – changes.

The speed at which you complete even the most ordinary tasks decreases exponentially. Just going to the grocery store requires an effort akin to climbing Mount Everest when you have a baby in tow. There are endless supplies to take along. Your diaper bag fills up the cart even before you start actually selecting items off the shelves.

The spontaneity that was once a feature of your young, carefree life is gone, seemingly forever. You don't just up and DO stuff. You plan. You figure out whether you need a babysitter. You schedule everything around feedings, diaper changes and naps (yours and the baby's).

One minute you're deciding on the spur of the moment to go and see a movie. The next you're plotting out your life in three-minute increments through the end of next year.

And you know what? It's wonderful.

I'm not kidding, it's awesome.

Yes, yes, it's exhausting and all. And I mean exhausting in every possible way: mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally.

But it's all worth it. Heck, it's MORE than worth it. I cannot describe to you the joy that comes when you're entrusted with raising a small human to adulthood.

It's work, but it's good work, you know? It's satisfying work. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be willing to donate major organs just for the chance to take a 20-minute afternoon siesta.

And you'll love it. Parenthood is the single most fulfilling and exciting thing I've ever done.

It all starts with that seemingly innocuous jump from zero children to one. It's a big one, but it's a fun one. Don't be afraid.

When your child stops being a kid

I realize it's probably lazy of me to do this, but if you're a parent (or someday plan to become a parent) and you read this blog, I suspect this is the kind of thing you'd like to read.

Rather than writing today, I'm just going to link to the following piece, which I think encapsulates everything that's simultaneously wonderful and heartbreaking about parenthood.

It's called "Just Like That," and you can click here to read it. It will only take you a few minutes, I promise.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Those few seconds when you just stare at your child

I was looking at my son Jared the other day. He didn't know I was looking at him, which is good because it would have been a bit weird and creepy, with me just staring at him and all.

But you parents know what I'm talking about, right? Sometimes you just look at your child. You do it when they're infants and they're sleeping. And you do it when they're older, too. You can't help it.

When I was looking at Jared, I was thinking a lot of different things. I thought about how grown up he is. I thought about how physically big he is. I thought what a shame it was that my dad never got the chance to see him play soccer or kick a football. (Trust me, Bob Tennant would have LOVED watching his grandkids play high school sports. He would have been a permanent fixture at Wickliffe High School. Heck, he came to most of my football PRACTICES. The man was a true fan.)

Sometimes you look at your kids and you think what a genuine miracle they are. I imagine this is especially true for the mothers who actually birth them because, you know, you grew a kid inside of you. In less than a year, that child formed inside of you and burst into the world. And now, well, here they are. Amazing.

You also look at your kids and worry a little. Even if there's not really anything specific to worry about, you worry anyway because that's what you do. Right there in the parent job description it says, "Must be willing to worry about child even when you can't quite pinpoint exactly what you're worrying about."

I guess we worry about whether we've done our jobs right in raising them. We worry about how they're doing in school and in life. We worry about whether we've taught them the things they need to know.

All of this flickered through my mind when I looked over at Jared as we were driving to a hockey game together. And in that moment I felt a love so intense for him it was a little jarring.

You always love your kids, of course. But there are moments when you remember how much you love them, and it hits you hard. For most of us, we love because we ourselves were loved. We are bound to pass that love along as part of a relationship that is simultaneously the most rewarding and most difficult thing we do in this life.

And all the while, The Boy was looking down at his phone, no doubt absorbed in checking the performance of his fantasy football team or reading up on how the Browns – his favorite football team and mine – have managed to screw up in some new and creative way.

He was oblivious, but that's OK. It's not his time yet. One day he'll feel the same love for his own child, and only then will he realize that his own parents felt the same way about him. You can't fully understand it until you're ready to give it to someone else. That's the nature of it. And like I said, that's OK.

I stared at him a few more seconds, and then the light that had us stopped in Downtown Cleveland turned green. So I turned my attention back to the road. But I still loved him.

I'll always love him.

Which is the biggest adjustment: Your first kid? Your second? Your third?

I've heard it said among people with three or more children that having that third child was the hardest leap for them to make.

The argument goes that when you have one or two kids, there is always a parent available to address any child-related crisis that might arise. And that suddenly, with three kids, you're outnumbered. You switch from man-to-man coverage to more of a zone defense.

Which I suppose is true.

But hands down, the biggest jump is going from the state of being childless to the state of parenthood. It's that zero-to-one adjustment that is, by far, the most life-changing.

Right? You parents remember what it was like when you were rookies. Life before the first kid and life after the first kid could not be more different. Everything – and I mean everything – changes.

The speed at which you complete even the most ordinary tasks decreases exponentially. Just going to the grocery store requires an effort akin to climbing Mount Everest when you have a baby in tow. There are endless supplies to take along. Your diaper bag fills up the cart even before you start actually selecting items off the shelves.

The spontaneity that was once a feature of your young, carefree life is gone, seemingly forever. You don't just up and DO stuff. You plan. You figure out whether you need a babysitter. You schedule everything around feedings, diaper changes and naps (yours and the baby's).

One minute you're deciding on the spur of the moment to go and see a movie. The next you're plotting out your life in three-minute increments through the end of next year.

And you know what? It's wonderful.

I'm not kidding, it's awesome.

Yes, yes, it's exhausting and all. And I mean exhausting in every possible way: mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally.

But it's all worth it. Heck, it's MORE than worth it. I cannot describe to you the joy that comes when you're entrusted with raising a small human to adulthood.

It's work, but it's good work, you know? It's satisfying work. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be willing to donate major organs just for the chance to take a 20-minute afternoon siesta.

And you'll love it. Parenthood is the single most fulfilling and exciting thing I've ever done.

It all starts with that seemingly innocuous jump from zero children to one. It's a big one, but it's a fun one. Don't be afraid.